The next day, despite soreness all over—especially in my legs from strolling the park with Wang Lei yesterday afternoon—and feeling utterly groggy upon waking, I forced myself up. After a quick wash, I changed into workout clothes and headed straight for the sports field.

It was Saturday, so morning exercisers had dropped by 80% compared to yesterday. The vast playground stood nearly empty, only a few boys jogging in the distance.

Warm-ups first, then a slow 2000-meter run. I massaged my legs and feet, followed by sit-ups and pull-ups to strengthen my core. Only after working up a sweat, feeling heat and a distinct surge of strength in my abdomen, did I take a few deep breaths and walk toward the cafeteria.

Beyond staying healthy, there was another, more awkward reason for my routine: my period. My current body was undeniably female. Bi Xin Xue’s cycle typically ran from the 3rd to the 10th each month, lasting four to six days. Like many girls with a weaker constitution, she suffered painful cramps—sometimes severe enough to keep her bedridden, with dizziness, nausea, and diarrhea.

In my past life, I’d learned that regularly active girls often had much milder periods than sedentary ones; some barely noticed it, needing only sanitary pads or liners. But you couldn’t wait until it started—you never knew the exact day. So you stocked up, wore liners as the date neared, changed them three or four times daily. Setting aside the hassle, it raised another issue: cost. These things cost money.

Imagine living in Xiangcao City on a 900-yuan monthly allowance. Cafeteria meals were cheaper. Breakfast like Chen Xiao Rui’s—meat bun (1.5 yuan), veggie bun (1 yuan), soy milk (1.5 yuan)—totaled 4 yuan. Lunch (one meat, one veg) was at least 7 yuan. Same for dinner: 18 yuan daily, 540 yuan monthly. Add sanitary pads: around 600 yuan. Non-negotiable.

No personal kettles allowed; purified water dispensers outside cost ~50 yuan monthly. Mom bought me a ~2000-yuan laptop for CS major; internet fee: 50 yuan. Couldn’t borrow roommates’ shampoo forever—shower gel, detergent: ~50 yuan. Total so far: 750 yuan. Phone bill: 30–50 yuan. Basic costs neared 800 yuan. No cosmetics counted yet. Less than 100 yuan left for sunscreen, a skirt, QQ membership, tissues… gone in a flash.

Life wasn’t this tidy. Class fees, treating friends, sudden illness—a hospital visit cost over 100 yuan. Then? Skip breakfast, eat twice a day. But poor eating weakened the body further. Vicious cycle.

I didn’t know Mom’s exact job, but Grandma once mentioned her salary was around 2500 yuan. Supporting two people on that was already hard. I couldn’t ask for more. It would break her.

“One meat bun, two veggie buns, one custard bun, two soy milks.” After buying breakfast, I ate mine quietly in a corner, then carried the rest back to the dorm—I’d promised Chen Xiao Rui I’d bring hers.

“Wow, so early!” Only two roommates were up on this weekend morning: Jiang Yuqing (E-commerce major) and Zhang Qi. Zhang Qi, my bunkmate, lay in bed with laptop and headphones. Jiang Yuqing was at the sink washing up. My phone read 8:00 a.m.

“Class rep up this early?” I joined her at the sink, wiping sweat from my flushed face. “It’s Saturday.”

“Yep. Heading to the Anime Club—see if I can borrow cosplay costumes.”

“Still on that?” I chuckled awkwardly. “Cosplay outfits don’t suit everyone.”

“No worries. Try another if one doesn’t fit.” Her eyes flicked to my chest, highlighted by the thin workout jacket. “No wonder you’re confident, Xiao Xue—you’ve got the figure.”

“I—no!” Flustered, I added, “We don’t even know them. They won’t just lend props, right?”

“Relax. Literature Club and Anime Club are sister clubs. As Literature’s vice president, I know people there.” She paused. “Wait—Xiao Xue, you haven’t joined any club?”

“Me? Nah.” I waved it off.

Truth was, after freshman orientation, “I” wanted English and Roller Skating Clubs. But base fee was 80 yuan. English Club added 110 yuan for materials; Roller Skating needed 200+ for gear. Only Animal Protection, Anime, Literature, and Martial Arts Clubs charged just the base fee—but none interested me. So I skipped it.

“You should try Anime Club, Xiao Xue,” Jiang Yuqing teased. “A girl like you? Total star among those otaku.” She hung her towel. “Just worked out?”

“Yep.”

“Lucky. I can’t wake that early.” She yawned. “Part-time job later?”

“No orders today. Probably no income.”

“Orders? So you’re…” She glanced at the four sleeping girls and lowered her voice. “A gaming companion?”

“Yep!” I struck a proud pose. “Boss, wanna book? I haven’t played Jian Wang 3, but I’ll learn.”

“Nope. Our guild once hired a male companion for a raid—his voice? Ugh, so flirtatious I swooned. You’re right here in our dorm… book you, and I’d probably turn gay by tomorrow.” She grabbed her backpack. “Off I go.”

“Mm.”

After she left, I tapped Chen Xiao Rui’s QQ icon—added last night—and typed: *“Breakfast’s on your desk. Eat when you wake up~ Love, Xiao Xue.”* Sent.

I changed into last year’s clothes—Grandma’s gift, “I” rarely wore for being “ugly”—slipped on shoes, shouldered my pre-packed bag, and stepped out.

Sunlight dappled the tree-lined path. I opened the Hua Li Mao app, confirmed no rentals today, minimized it, and pocketed my phone. Heading to Grandma’s rental today.

Her place sat in a messy urban village in northeastern Dadong District. Rent stayed low because of it—300 yuan monthly, utilities included, max 350.

“The vehicle is arriving. Please hold on. Next stop: Da Ban Po. Alighting passengers, gather belongings and move toward the rear door…”

Downtown campus perk: bus stop right outside, many routes. I took a back seat, opened the app store, typed “novel,” and searched.

“I” owed several online loans due monthly between the 11th and 19th. One odd loan required daily repayment—just over 30 yuan. That’d clear in three months. The real burden: 3450 yuan due mid-month.

Excluding the extra 900 yuan, Mom usually sent allowance around the 8th. If all went well, I’d receive it before repayment. With Hua Li Mao earnings minus daily costs, I’d saved ~1200 yuan. Still far short.

Half a month remained. I could keep earning via Hua Li Mao—but had to plan for the worst: what if no orders came?

So I’d use every spare moment to find other income streams.

My slender fingers scrolled the phone screen. During the ride, I downloaded several novel apps, skimmed homepage recommendations, and gauged their reader demographics.

Before alighting, my focus landed on “SkyFire Novels.”

Our nation was called SkyFire Nation. This site had the highest traffic.

No government backing? I doubted it.

After a pause, I registered with my number. ID: *Qiong Mei Is My Wife*. Profile pic: Qiong Mei.

Logically, a female author—a “selling point”—should pick a cutesy name like “DreamyMoeMoe” or “LittleXinXin,” pair it with a beautified selfie or yuri anime avatar to trigger: *“Wow, female author! Gotta tip!”* But from my past life’s experience? That tactic’s worn thin.

More female authors emerged; the gimmick faded. Besides, writing novels isn’t about being a “virtual girlfriend.” Gender doesn’t matter.

Moreover, there’s an unwritten tradition in the web novel world: making authors “cross-dress.” But if most readers already know the author is female, that “big reveal” loses all its punch. People would instinctively scoff—*Pfft*, what’s special about a girl dressing up? Forget it.

Flip the script: what if a female author picks a super “hardcore otaku” username, talks and acts online like a shut-in otaku or middle-aged guy, and after years on the site, everyone’s convinced she’s a male otaku? Then readers demand she “cross-dresses”—wouldn’t that reveal hit even harder?

Everyone thinks the author’s a guy. She actually posts “cross-dressing” pics—and wow, absolutely stunning figure, legs so perfect you’d never tire of admiring them. Wouldn’t that shatter readers’ worldview? Ultimate publicity bait, right?

“Check out our group admin’s cross-dressing pics! Look at those legs—can you *believe* this is a guy?!”

“Which author? What novel? I’m reading it NOW!”

Buzz like this drives traffic fast. Popularity soars, subscriptions follow—no worries.

And even in the worst case—if her true gender ever leaks? The shockwave would be massive—

“Qiongmei Uncle is actually a girl? Love it! Already obsessed.”

“So the author cracking dirty jokes with us daily is a *girl*? Whoa—time to tip!”

“I thought a girl this hardcore-otaku didn’t exist. Guess I’ve been living under a rock. Following!”

Hmm. Perfect.

On the bus, I glanced at my phone screen: *“Registration Successful”* for the username *“QiongmeiIsMyWife.”* I closed the app and slipped the phone into my pocket.

Three thousand yuan in half a month? You’ve got this, Xiaoxue. Keep going.